


Symphony in F Major

by MT_Yami



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Cellist Otabek, Classical Music, Conductor Viktor, M/M, Musicians, Prose Poem, Romance, Shounen-ai, Violinist Yuri, Yaoi, not really but almost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MT_Yami/pseuds/MT_Yami
Summary: Principal cellist Otabek Altin welcomes a new concertmaster to his orchestra, the famous violin virtuoso Yuri Plisetsky. Intertwined both by fate and the fervent melody that they create together, they discover what future may come for them between the lines of Brahms’ hauntingly beautiful third symphony.





	Symphony in F Major

**Author's Note:**

> While this fic could certainly be read alone, I highly recommend listening to the pieces mentioned in the work while you read, both Jules Massenet's Méditation from Thaïs (in particular Maxim Vengerov's truly flawless version) and Johannes Brahms' Symphony No. 3 in F major, Op. 90, third movement (poco allegretto). Enjoy!

He first fell in love with Yuri while watching a YouTube video of him playing Méditation from _Thaïs_ , a melody lyrical and haunting like his heavy-lidded eyes. His blond hair, softly curling around a fairy face, swayed with him as the music swelled and his movements became large, impassioned.

What intrigued Otabek most as he watched was the roiling, tenuous anger that simmered beneath the ethereal piece, giving the impression of a tiger, restrained and muzzled. This was not the kind of music Yuri usually liked to play, no, he was more Paganini than Massenet, preferring to be swept up in the frantic, furious dance, his long, slender fingers drumming over the fingerboard in tempo with the piano, climbing and climbing up and up the black wood never stopping never faltering never erring—

But this was Massenet that he played now on the screen, and as Yuri’s fingers ghosted over the strings, Otabek thought to himself how much it was like a prayer. He wondered then what it would be like to touch Yuri while he was tense like this; corded muscles in his forearms and fingers coiled and ready to spring into a melodious run. Oh, and the way he _breathed_ , each phrase an audible gasp even through the imperfect sound quality of the video. Otabek breathed with him, holding and releasing, each sigh a welcome respite from the tension of each clause, a proclamation from the rooftop more than a conversation. Yuri’s hand slid along the delicate neck of his violin to hit the final harmonic note, high and dulcet off the fingerboard, and Otabek shivered.

The video went silent if only for a moment, the audience suddenly erupting into uproarious applause, and Otabek almost fell off his chair in a daze.

It was hard to believe that this person was the same sullen, sour-faced boy that sat across from him that first day of orchestra rehearsal, first chair violinist and concertmaster to his principal cellist. But a single look was all it took for Otabek to know that he was indeed, one and the same with the boy in the video. Those unmistakable blue-green eyes held cold fire as he scrutinized Otabek behind the conductor’s back, appraising him as his unspoken partner in leading the orchestra.

“And this season we welcome the peerless Yuri Plisetsky as our concertmaster,” the conductor was saying somewhere off to Otabek’s right, a voice far away. “I hope you will accept him with open arms.”

Yuri stood and gave a low, tense bow to the orchestra amid polite applause, then sat again, rearranging his sheet music with a perennial frown. As the violinists began to warm up, Otabek was captivated, his fingers frozen, his body paralyzed. Yuri’s distinct, clarion notes cut through the din even as he blazed through the mundane scales and arpeggios in a way that would make even Ševčík envious. He was the wood and metal of his instrument embodied in flesh, and Otabek was so captivated that his fingers never touched the strings until his stand partner, Phichit, nudged him expectantly.

The deep vibrations from the cello as he at last drew his bow across the thick strings tore him away from his fixation on Yuri momentarily, but somewhere between arpeggios and open string exercises he felt the blond boy _watching_ him with those piercing soldier eyes. He felt the heat rise from his neck to his cheeks, his bow suddenly heavy, his sautillé clumsy.

Yuri approached him during the break, extending his hand with a dubious expression, the corners of his lips downturned.

“You’re better than I thought you would be.” He sniffed, sizing Otabek up with those eyes. “And you respond to me well enough.”

While he spoke, Otabek caught himself _responding_ _well enough_ , but only in daydreams of what he hoped could be possible. Yuri would call him Beka with reluctant affection, and he would call him Yura, always with a coy smile. They would sneak kisses in green rooms and shadowed corners of auditoriums, Otabek’s fingers tangled in that silky blond mane, their lingering flush and kiss-crushed lips the only evidence of their dalliance as they assembled to play. At night, they would quarrel over whose turn it was to use the soundproof practice room, but all disagreements would halt if Yuri gave him that suggestive look that led, every time without fail, to hot, slick kisses and passionate lovemaking, Yuri’s slender, nubile body arched hard beneath Otabek’s like a bow drawn over strings. Otabek would play him with deft fingers, eliciting a sweet song from Yuri’s glistening, flush-pink lips, more rousing than even Rachmaninoff’s symphonic poetry.

Otabek returned to his desk, half lost in his fantasy until their conductor, the legendary Viktor Nikiforov, tapped his baton on the music stand enthusiastically. “Let’s go ahead and pick up the Brahms number 3, starting with the third movement, _poco allegretto_. This one is a personal favorite of mine, so please, make it count.” He inhaled audibly, long and deep, his arms sweeping to cue the sorrowful piece, its fragility uncharacteristic of Brahms.

The orchestra had barely played fifty measures before Viktor cut them off abruptly, pinching his thumb and forefinger with a frown. He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I just want to hear Yuri and Otabek play for us so we all know what it’s _supposed_ to sound like when the first violins and cellos are actually listening to each other. The beginning is so critical to this piece because it sets the tone and establishes the theme. If you please, sirs? Just until where the oboes take the melody. Answer each other’s call. Create a story. Who are you to each other?”

Yuri’s huffing sigh of annoyance echoed loudly in the silence of the auditorium, and Otabek regarded him with a cautious stare. But Viktor’s baton was already raised, and his audible breath pulled Otabek’s bow into motion.

It was rare for a symphony to open with the cello’s song, and the haunting melody was low and rich, pouring from the strings as Otabek painted tender, arching strokes. Yuri kept his eyes trained on the dark-haired boy, his quiet answer filling the sustained notes of Otabek’s bittersweet melody. They swayed into the air around each other, creating pressure between them even as they played on opposite sides of Viktor, whose smile was faint and dreamlike as he directed them with subdued movements of his hands.

_Who are you to me? You're the arms wrapped tightly around my waist on the back of my motorcycle, your cheek pressed into my leather jacket, the wind whipping through your flaxen hair. You're the soft voice that still tells me that you love me even though you can barely admit it to yourself._

The violin answered sweetly in high, dulcet tones, repeating Otabek’s theme. His eyes locked with Yuri’s fierce blue-green gaze, their notes intertwining, call and answer, call and answer, the gentle swell of the melody transferring from one wooden body to the next.

_Who are you to me? You're the outstretched hand asking me to trust you with those dark eyes of yours filled with promises. You're the solid rock beneath my feet when I'm faltering, the arms to hold me when my heart is fragile and I can't face the world alone, the kiss I crave all the days of my life._

Otabek’s response was a soulful thrumming layered underneath Yuri’s clear, lingering notes. _Dolce_ , the music read, _dolce_ , tender, adoring.

_You're my first friend. You're my first love. You're my first heartbreak. You're everything and nothing to me, the beginning and the end._

The sound of their instruments began to meld, Otabek’s tenor and Yuri’s soprano synced in harmonious sixteenths, rising and falling together until they came to the indicated rest just before the oboes enter, and Viktor cut them off with a gentle closing of his palms.

From across the orchestra, violinist and cellist regarded each other with wonder, as if they had both somehow glimpsed the same future, a future where they had become so much more than what they had expected to at first.

“And that,” Viktor murmured with a smile, “is how two parts become one.”


End file.
